The Sweet Dead Life by Joy Preble
“You sound like an owl,” my brother said. “Let it alone.”
I pouted for the rest of the ride. Casey pretended to focus on driving: sensible, seeing as we’d nearly been killed in a car not that long ago. But I caught him glancing at me now and then out of the corner of his eye. At a stoplight, he rested his hand on my shoulder. That peaceful feeling seeped through me again.
Before it could take hold, I shrugged him away. “We promised each other,” I snapped. “Remember?”
He didn’t answer. I knew he knew that I was moving into territory that we never talked about, because talking about it made our family issues real, something that we tried to avoid at all costs.
“Remember, Casey?” I pressed in spite of myself, in spite of wanting that hand on my shoulder. “When you told me that Dad wasn’t coming back. You said that Mom could never bring herself to tell us what we deserved to know. You said no secrets after that. Not between you and me. You said we had to count on each other, remember? So what? That was just a lie?”
My brother’s hands tightened noticeably on the steering wheel. “Not a lie,” he said quietly. “Jenna, I—I can’t …”
But by then we were at Mario’s. He never did finish the sentence.
AMBER STOOD BEHIND the bar, drying off some beer glasses.
“What’s been going on?” She eyeballed my brother like she knew he’d been up to something he shouldn’t have been.
“Worked my shift,” Casey answered tersely. “Now we’re here. You heard anything about the blood work?”
“Did something else happen?” she asked.
He shook his head, but he shifted guiltily on his feet. He hadn’t gotten stoned again; I would have smelled that. A new possibility occurred to me. Maybe Amber was a spy for the CIA or some foreign country. A Russian spy ring had mistaken me for some child agent and had been poisoning me, and she had recruited my brother to help her get to the bottom of things. The chopped beef churned in my belly. Believing that a Russian spy ring found my brother a possible asset was, again, only slightly more implausible than the whole Lanie Phelps incident.
My brother excused himself to pee.
I leaned at the bar, glaring at the back of Amber’s head as she scooped strawberries into the blender on the counter behind her.
“You need to keep your energy up,” she said, still facing the other way. She peeled a banana and added that, too, along with some kind of fruity looking liquid and ice cubes and let the blender rip. Amber turned and gave a smile. “Everyone loves my strawberry-banana smoothies,” she said over the whirring.
“You need to leave us alone,” I told her in a cold voice. The barbeque gave another jolt in my intestines. I willed it to stay put.
“Jenna—”
“I mean it. Leave me and Casey and our mom alone. I know you helped save me, but you’re done now. Whatever it is you want from my brother, you need to forget about it. Casey may not be on to you, but I am.”
I leaned into the bar, bringing my face close. I was not afraid of Amber Velasco. I wasn’t even afraid of whoever had been coming into my room when I wasn’t in my boots and sabotaging them. Which probably was her? But why? Because she knew I’d stand in the way of whatever was going on with her and my brother? Amber didn’t stop smiling. Instead, she flicked off the blender, poured the smoothie into a to-go cup and handed it to me.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Not spiked.”
“No worries,” I said.’ “ ’Cause I’m not drinking it.”
“I’m not your enemy, Jenna,” she said cryptically.
“You’re not my friend.”
She turned and dumped more fruit and ice in the blender. Slapped the lid in place and pressed the button. Then she turned back. The blender whirred. So did my insides.
“Jenna,” Amber said slowly, drawing out my name so that my skin prickled. Mario’s was dark and quiet, but there was a glow over the bar. They must have had installed some kind of fancy recessed lighting to set a mood. “Your brother needs to—” She suddenly stopped mid-sentence and vaulted over the bar like an Olympic athlete.
I had to grab the smoothie to keep it from toppling, not that I cared. She hightailed it over to my brother, now back from the john, lurking by the food pick-up window, and whispering into his cell phone. I could tell from his smile he wasn’t talking to Dave.
Amber snatched the cell phone out of his hand and shoved it forcefully into his pocket. “Isn’t it bad enough that I have to live here where people think Olive Garden is fine dining?” she hissed, loud enough for me to hear. “What do you think the AIC is going to say? Forget about your freaking ex-girlfriend! Glitches like these don’t happen. It was supposed to be ten years from now, you know. At Austin Comic-Con. You were going to get smacked on the head with a model of the Millennium Falcon.”
I gaped, slack-jawed at them. I supposed I was learning vital information. But it was gibberish.
Amber dragged Casey to the bar and plopped him down on the seat beside me. “Sit,” she ordered. “Stay.”
“What’s the AIC?” I demanded. My brain was already a jumble of possible word combinations. American Institute of Crime. Austin Investigation Council. (She had mentioned Austin. And Comic-Con. Austin Imposters at Comic-Con.) Was there a synonym for narc that began with A?
Not surprisingly, Amber ignored the question. She poured a second smoothie into another to-go cup and handed it to me. It smelled different than mine, more medicine-y. “Give this to your mother. I added supplements for her electrolytes. And you need to drink yours. Now.”
“I don’t think so,” I said to both demands. I turned to Casey.
He was ignoring me, too. For the first time since the accident, he looked pissed. “What the hell do you expect, Amber? I never asked … Lanie never understood what happened to me. Why couldn’t you have been here five years ago? That would have made sense. Five years ago and Jenna and my mother wouldn’t have had to—”
“Because five years ago I was living with my boyfriend in Austin and going to UT. I was majoring in pre-med.” Amber snapped her mouth shut. Slammed a fist on the bar. The entire room seemed to shake, even the barstools. “Go home, Casey. Take Jenna with you. We’ll talk about this later.”
Casey’s glittering eyes smoldered. Still, he did not utter a word of protest. He grabbed the smoothies and stomped off to the door. Yes, I was happy to get the hell out of there. But part of me wanted to stay a little longer. See if she went ballistic again.
My stomach knot was back, tighter than ever.
I realized something then. Even when I’d been dying full time, I hadn’t been truly afraid.
FOR PART OF the ride, Casey and I argued about the smoothies. Well, at least until I took a sip and found myself downing the whole cup. Amber Velasco may have been an increasingly terrifying creeper woman of mystery, but she made a damn good smoothie. The freaking thing tasted great. More than great. It soothed my dry throat. And even though I was angry and edgy and scared and confused, my head felt clearer than it had in months. I made a mental note to put more fruit in my diet. Fruit was cheap, at least.
“She’s crazy,” I said when I finished.
Casey shook his head. “No, she’s not.”
“Well, answer me this simple question. If she was pre-med five years ago, then why isn’t she a doctor now? Why is she just an EMT?”
“She—it’s okay, Jenna. I can’t—damn it. Jenna.” He trailed off, sputtering. And thus ended the car ride portion of the conversation.
AT HOME, I stood by Mom’s bed with Casey while she sipped the other smoothie.
“This is delicious,” she said. She sounded lucid. She smiled at us over the to-go cup. She almost looked healthy. I glanced at the lamp on her nightstand. Whatever light bulb was in there, it was casting a particularly nice glow on her face. I peeked under the shade. It wasn’t even one of the new environmentally sound ones. Just an old 75 watt.
Casey kissed Mom on the forehead. “Go to sleep,”
But: I noticed he’d left his phone on the front hall table. I scrolled through his contacts. Pressed Amber’s number, which he had listed as Amber V. No answer. No voicemail. I needed to Google her, I decided. See if she had a Facebook page maybe. Someone had to know something about Amber Velasco. Even if it meant putting on gloves so I could use Casey’s laptop without worrying about health hazards.
After that, I took a shower, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, stuffed the offending clogs under my bed—and did what I’d wanted to do since I’d been dragged from Ima Hogg. I called Mags.
“Casey?” she answered, sounding way too excited.
“No, it’s his little sister. You know, your friend, Jenna?”
“Oh! Jeez. My bad. Sorry. It’s just the caller ID—”
“I’m borrowing his phone. Listen, they figured out what was making me sick.” I decided not to use the word poison. No use panicking my best friend. “Doc Renfroe says I’m going to be okay.”
“That Amber person still around?” she asked. For the first time all day, I smiled, as in actually smiled. Mags was no slouch in the brain department. She knew there was something fishy.
“Yeah. And things have gotten a whole lot weirder, if you can believe it.”
“I got your back, you know,” Mags said.
I did know. I just didn’t know if that would help.
CASEY HAD BEEN blasting some godforsaken punk rock band (at least an improvement over Katy Perry) when I finally mustered the energy to confront him with the handy excuse of returning his phone. I tapped on his door. No answer. I guess he was tired of arguing with me. His problem. I wasn’t letting him off the hook anymore. Our life was messed up enough without adding a stranger and her secrets. Even Casey had to understand that.
I banged a little more loudly. I really didn’t want to walk in there to find him with his laptop, or worse. On the third no-answer knock, I took a deep breath, turned the doorknob, and poked my head in.
“Casey?” I whispered.
He was standing twisted at the mirror, his shirt off, eyeballing his back. On each of his shoulder blades sat a dark nub, both about the size of my thumbnail. I watched as he poked one with his finger. I edged inside the room, too startled to make a peep. Something was sticking out of each nub. Something that looked like … a feather? For a second, I thought I might be sick again. My brother had feathers growing out of his back? What the hell? Was somebody poisoning him, too?
Casey caught a glimpse of me in the mirror. He whirled around, eyes frantic. “Shit! Jenna. Get out!”
“No.” I stood firm, his phone clutched in my hand.
“I’m serious!” he hollered. “I don’t have a shirt on.”
Like I hadn’t seen that before? I walked to his bed, tossed the phone on his pillow, and picked up his T-shirt. “Here,” I said, waving it in his face. “Problem solved.”
His back was to the mirror now. My pulse quickened. “What is on your back?” I asked point-blank.
Casey snatched the shirt from me and started yanking (or trying to yank) it over his head. His hands were shaking. “Go back to your room,” he growled, his voice muffled by the fabric. Screw it. I changed my mind midstream. I whipped the shirt off him before he could get his arms through the sleeves.
“Jesus!” my brother yelped. “What are you doing?”
I pointed to the feathers. That’s what they were for sure. Feathers.
“So what did you do?” I said. “Get those at Spencer’s? Did Bryce convince you to go there again?”
Casey’s voice sounded sort of strangled. “No,” he managed. “Shit. Jenna. You should sit down. I need to tell you something. About me. About Amber, too. Just give me the goddamned shirt, okay?”
More weirdness. (As in, weirdness inside.) Because as I handed him the shirt and sat on the bed, I felt woozy, not relieved. If I’d been scared before, then I was terrified now. For the first time, Casey himself looked stricken. He angled in the mirror again, eyeballing the nubs. “They’re really there, aren’t they?” he whispered.
“What’s it got to do with Amber? You didn’t get her pregnant or something did you?” Granted, that was the first time this thought had occurred to me, but I figured I needed to toss it out there. Maybe he’d done it with her. Maybe the thing on his back was some kind of sex disease. It wasn’t like Ima Hogg went out of its way to educate us impressionable eighth grade youth about STDs. Maybe back feathers were common.
“No!” Casey gave a short laugh. “Is that what you think?”
“Is that what you did?” His laptop was open on the bedspread beside me and powered up. Desperate times, I thought. I pulled up Google. Typed in Amber Velasco.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m going to prove that she is up to no good. Someone has to know something about her. It has to be somewhere on the Internet.”
He sighed. “She’s not there. Believe me, I’ve looked.” He moved from the mirror, rubbing at his left shoulder blade with his right hand. “There’s three Amber Velascos but none of ’em are her. Trust me on that. I guess they wipe you clean if …”
I stood up. Before he could flinch or jerk away, I pressed one of the nubs. It felt hard and smooth. Spencer’s made some quality products. Right? So why did I still feel scared? Because he didn’t even blink?
“I need to try something,” Casey said. “Stay there. Keep looking at my back, okay? Please, Jenna.”
He squeezed his arms against his sides and made a grunting noise. Honestly, it sounded like he was trying to poop. Against my better judgment, I stood still. The dark little nubs pushed forward from Casey’s back. The feathers fanned out. Into tiny little damp wings. Like the kind of wings you see when a bird first hatches.
“You and Bryce need to stop wasting your money on all that comic book and video game crap,” I said. My voice sounded funny in my ears, like I was listening to someone else talk. My gaze kept flickering over the feathers, hunting for any hint that they were fake. I’d never seen feathers so real, except on a bird. (Specifically on the pigeons that loitered outside the Ima Hogg dumpsters.) That sheen. It could be a flat monotone one moment, the glimpse of a prism the next. As if each feather were made up of shimmering little strands, thinner than human hair. Rippling like water when he moved even the slightest bit. “What are those, anyway? Something from a character in World of Warcraft?”
I clung to this last desperate hope for sanity. After all, Amber had mentioned Comic-Con in her nonsensical rant. Last year, Bryce had gone to Comic-Con in Dallas. I knew he was trying to convince Casey to go with him to the next one. Maybe this was Casey’s costume. Now that my brother suddenly looked healthier than he had since football (or really ever), it was conceivable that he would want to go shirtless in front of the comic book community and try to bag Wonder Woman or something.
Casey squeezed again and grunted. The damp wings retracted. The nubs, too. They flattened against his skin.
“I don’t understand,” I squeaked. Maybe the antivenin had stopped working. Maybe I wasn’t being poisoned. Maybe my not-Ebola was back. I was hallucinating. But why would I hallucinate that?
“I was dead,” my brother said. “But they sent me back.”
Full-fledged panic finally bloomed—a hard heart thump—in my chest. “Dead?”
“From the accident, Jenna. I died. You didn’t. They sent me back.”
Okay. He was crazy, too. Maybe it was safest to humor him. “Who sent you back?”
“I’m not sure. I couldn’t see much, and they weren’t big on introductions.”
“You were in Heaven?” That’s what he seemed to be saying. A piec
“No.” Casey shook his head. “Not exactly. It was too dark to see where I was. They said I was a special case.”
I glanced at the laptop still lying on his bed.
“They said I had to find out what really happened to Dad. What’s going on with Mom. Why you’ve been so sick. We’ve sort of figured out that last one now, but we still need to find out who poisoned you.” He sounded like he was checking off items on a list. He sounded the way he used to sound when he blew off homework until the last second. My mouth was hanging open. I closed it. “That’s the deal. They said I had more to do with my life. They said I had to guard you. And only I could do it. Jenna, you have to understand, I could only hear voices, and it was pitch dark. But they sounded pissed. You know, with me in general. The weed and hanging out with Dave, mostly. Although the Prius scored some points. Especially since I’m from Texas.”
I snorted, but began to relax. I decided to go along with his madness, just for the moment. I’d get in touch with Dr. Renfroe later. Better to document as much symptomatic behavior as possible. Anyway, I was insulted. Leave it to my brother to come up with a delusion that makes Casey Samuels the hero. Yes, I’m a big enough loser to get stuck with him as my guardian angel.
“So about Amber … she’s an angel, too,” he explained, still sounding anxious. “I—She’s, like, my boss. Well not exactly, but she’ll explain it to you now that you know. She’s probably gonna be pretty pissed I told you so soon. But shit. I really couldn’t keep it from you much longer, right?” His voice abruptly became low and urgent. “You can’t tell anybody, though. That’s part of it, too. We can’t let anyone know. Not Mom, not Mags, not a single living soul.”